


Be Your Own Kind Of Beautiful

by Hannibalsimago



Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom
Genre: Babe Pastel Hanni, Cooking, Couch Cuddles, Dogs, Genderfluid, Hairy Grumpy Will, Implied Sexual Content, Implied reference to sounding, Kissing, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person, implied reference to butt plugs, implied reference to restraints, nothing obscene -Will has a lot of dogs, pastry, really obscene amount of kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 21:32:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12176946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannibalsimago/pseuds/Hannibalsimago
Summary: Hannibal has a birthday coming up. Will volunteers to make a birthday cake. A household of dogs and buttercream. What could possibly go wrong?Mood board by the incomparable @slashyrogueThis is a gift to pancakeispeople for the prompt “Grumpy Will baking a surprise (cake ) for Hannibaby ’s birthday :D”This is inspired by Camilleflyingrotten's Grumpy Hairy Will and Babe Pastel Hanni artwork. It should be noted that the artist has indicated that both characters are adult. BabyPastelHanni is a thirty year old man, who loves pastel, cuddling, soft pretty things and Will.I know that some people do not like this AU but please do not leave hate comments, thank you.





	Be Your Own Kind Of Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vulcanplomeeksoup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulcanplomeeksoup/gifts).



You can’t believe the words are coming out of your mouth.

“Let me do something for you Hannibal. Your birthday’s coming up. You shouldn't have to supply your own birthday cake.”

“Nonsense, Will, I don't mind. I've done it every year.”

“And that's exactly my point Hannibal. Not this year.”

Two days later, after bartering for some ‘simple’ car repairs, you and Beverly came to an agreement. In return for the auto repairs, you got to raid her cookbooks along with the loan of her cake pans and hand mixer.

Browsing in Beverly’s stack of cookbooks, you discover the perfect pink cake. “That's it! That's the one!” Pleased as punch, you gather up the pans and mixer, thanking her and heading out the door, cutting off any dissuading attempts at the choice of recipe.

After you load the car, you impulsively take a picture of the pink cake and text the picture to Hannibal. ‘Expect to be amazed’ was the caption. Beverly watched all this from her porch with a Cheshire smile on her face.

“I expect to see pictures of the cake also, Will,” she called as you head to the VW Beetle. Nodding in agreement, you wave to her and drive off to the store.

Scanning the ingredients list, you rush through the store in near record time. You did have some trouble with the gelatin ( _who knew there were all these flavors?_ ) but figured since it was a pink cake, strawberry jello would work out fine.

After loading up the car, you headed back home to Wolf Trap. Grabbing the perishables, you unlock the door and let the pack out while you put the groceries in the kitchen. The mixer and bag with the cake pans and cookbook are next to get unloaded.

Once in the kitchen, you clear some counter space and set the pans near the stove. The butter, cream and eggs are carefully placed in the refrigerator.

Taking the book, you let the dogs in and sit down to plan your strategy. Looking at the ingredients for the cake, it doesn't look too complicated. The birthday is tomorrow which gives you plenty of time to have the whole thing done except for the frosting to finish. “I mean it's a cake. How bad can it be?” you ask the pack who sit, tails wagging in agreement. 

As you scan the recipe, you reach the bottom of the page and it says to be continued. Flipping the page, expecting to only see a paragraph of text, the recipe continues for the next two pages.

Your stomach sinks. “Maybe it won't be so bad.” Buster cocks his head and looks at you, ears rotating as you speak. 

You get up to grab a notepad and pen. _“I just have to be systematic. Logical.”_

Just then, your phone rings. Setting the cookbook aside, you grab your phone. Thinking it must be Bev, you say “Isn't this a bit premature? I haven't even finished reading the recipe yet.”

Instead of Beverly’s laugh, an exotic purr startles you into looking at the caller ID. “ _Oh, shit, Hannibal.”_

Your stomach sinks further.

Nervously laughing, you say, “I wasn't expecting your call, Hannibal.”

“Really? After you sent me that picture of the most gorgeous cake I’ve ever seen? Why wouldn't I call you? Do you need any special equipment, Will? You have only to ask.”

_“It should be illegal for Hannibal to ask me if I need special equipment in that voice of his,”_ as your cheeks flamed as pink as the picture in the cookbook.

Stuttering, you mumble about needing a serving platter for the cake.

“Nonsense! A cake like this deserves a cake stand. I will bring one tomorrow befitting the majesty of your creation.

Oh, that reminds me, since you are busy making the dessert, I will bring the main course. No cooking necessary. So don't worry about the stovetop or the oven. All I need is space in the fridge.”

You thank him, sign off and put your head in your hands before sighing and grabbing the cookbook again.

Systematically checking the recipe, you see it’s in four sections. _“ Champagne cake, pink chocolate curls, icing and something called Bavarian Creme. Ok. That explains why the two pages.”_

The Bavarian cream will take the longest time as it has to sit overnight in the fridge. _“So this is like the glue for the cake keeping all the layers together.”_

Needing to have something routine to do before starting to cook, you whistle for the pack and feed them. The last thing you need is having to stop at an inopportune time for a pack of hungry dogs. Shortly, everyone, four legged anyway, is fed and watered and settled in the living room, while you’re back in the kitchen.

Murmuring to yourself, you follow your handwritten notes. “Ok, let’s see, half a dozen eggs mixed with sugar.” The mixer is set up all gleaming on the counter. Before putting the ingredients in the mixing bowl, you take your time manipulating the levers and knobs so you can see what tightens or releases the mixing spatula as well as the mixing bowl. Regaining some much needed confidence, you start cracking eggs into the bowl.

“Oh, SHIT!,” as a vivid picture pops into your head leading you to quickly head upstairs to the bedroom. Grabbing what you need from the dresser you head back downstairs only to find Buster nosing about the kitchen, sniffing and wondering if there is something that he might like to investigate.

You growl in your most imposing voice, “Buster!” and he immediately heads into the living room and settles in his dog bed. Taking the bandana out of your pocket, you wrap it around your head and tie back your hair. _“I don’t need any mishaps_.” Shuddering at the visual image, you continue to add eggs and sugar to the bowl, then turn on the machine.

Once the eggs and sugar are beaten and ready, you turn your attention to the next stage of your notes. It directs you to heat the whip cream on a saucepan on the stove, then adding the jello. Something seems a bit odd, so you stop and check the recipe again. “Yes, that’s right. Heat the cream and add the jello,” you murmur as you check the cookbook.

Heating the cream on the stove, you wait for the telltale signs that it’s hot enough. When you see the wisps of steam, you rip open the strawberry jello package and pour it into the cream mixture. Instantly, it turns a bright red color. You grin in response, _“_ Oh, Hannibal will LOVE this.”

You surprise yourself with your skill as you constantly whisk the mixture for the recommended time. Pulling it off the heat, and setting the hot pan on a towel, you ladle small scoopfuls of the scalded liquid into the eggs beating to incorporate it, until all the whip cream has been added to the egg mixture. Beaming, you exclaim, “Ha! Success! I didn’t scramble the eggs! I just might survive this!”

Pouring the mixture into another bowl, you set it aside. The hardest part is finished but just one more step before the pink cream can go in the refrigerator.

You quickly clean the mixer bowl and dry it, reassembling it onto the machine. You whip another cup of cream until peaks form, add the vanilla and almond extracts and fold this cream into the pink mixture, covering it with clingfilm and putting it in top shelf of the refrigerator to chill overnight.

Sighing in relief, you snap a picture of the bowl and send it to Bev as requested.

Mixing the cake itself is less nerve racking, more familiar and routine. Cake pans filled with the sticky mess are safely in the oven with timer ticking down the minutes, you survey the damage in the kitchen. Sticky patches of pink filling dot the counter tops - “ _Oh, I think I got some on the floor too._ ” You take a picture of the devastation and send it to Bev. “Two down and two to go tomorrow.” Most of the area around the mixer is covered with a fine dusting of flour mixed with sugar, the evidence of your overzealousness with the power settings.

Feeling sticky everywhere, you decide to take a quick shower before cleaning up the kitchen as it looks like it might take some time. You unplug the mixer and put all the sticky bowls and attachments in the empty sink before heading to the bathroom.

^^^^^^^

Humming contentedly while heading back downstairs, the smell of freshly baked cake wafts throughout the lower level, fragrant with undernotes of vanilla and almond. As you enter the kitchen you see the unthinkable. Buster, in the sink, with his head deep in the mixing bowl, tail high in the air, wagging excitedly. Several others are nosing about, busily cleaning the kitchen floor and cabinets, licking up the pink creme.

Clicking your tongue loudly and a brusk, “Buster” causes the little dog to come up for air, cake mix all over his muzzle. You grab your phone and take a picture sending it accidentally to Hannibal, swearing mightily at the lapse and then to your intended recipient, Beverly. As you shoo everyone back into the living room, the timer goes off for the cake.

Grabbing the pot holders, you pull the lightly golden, intensely fragrant cake layers out of the oven, the smell filling the kitchen. “ _There’s something to be said for home cooking,_ ” immediately reminding you of Hannibal causing you to chuckle as you set them aside to cool.

The rest of the evening is uneventful, as you clean up the kitchen, turning out the cake layers and covering them to sit overnight in the refrigerator. Given the interest in the cake batter from Buster, there’s no way you are letting them sit out on the kitchen countertops overnight. Order restored to the kitchen, you turn your attentions to the living room trying to banish as much dog hair as you can, knowing it’s ultimately futile, before collapsing in your bed, surrounded by the faint scent of vanilla mixed with the comforting smell of dog. You smile as you drift off to sleep.

The next morning, coffee in hand, sitting on the porch, watching the pack investigating the yard, mind a blissful blank for once, you startle as your phone vibrates.

“Good morning, sunshine! I got your text from last night, the one featuring Buster. I can’t believe you let that happen!”

“Oh, believe me, Bev, it wasn’t intentional! Upstairs for a quick shower and boom, dog butt.”

“Haha!” Bev’s laugh burbles from the phone. “Hey, you owe me more photos! Is the cake done and frosted?”

“Cake is done but not frosted yet.”

“So when does the birthday boy arrive?”

“Oh, around midday.”

“You better hop to it then.” You laugh at her scolding and promise to take more photos as you head back inside, pack following after.

  
^^^^^

Hours later, Hannibal arrives at Wolf Trap, dinner and a silver cake stand safely stashed away in the trunk of the car. As Hannibal unloads the trunk, the silence of the afternoon is broken, birdsong interrupted. An anguished cry is audible through the open window. “BUSTER, NO!”

Moments later, the front door crashes open and a pink and white dog explodes from the house to be followed by a powdered-sugar-covered Will. The chastised dog runs off to groom under a tree while Will sags and sees Hannibal standing in the yard, laden with containers and a large shopping bag.

“Let me help you Hannibal.”

“Nonsense, Will. I can manage. Let’s go in and survey any damage.”

Will opens the door on a bizarre sight, pink frosting trailed throughout the living room leading back into the kitchen, a cloud of powdered sugar is visible as the pack circles around one area of the kitchen.

You corral the pack and order them out of the kitchen, voice rising as frustration mounts. Once safely outside, you sink onto to sofa.

“Just give me a minute Hannibal. I wanted…”

Having deposited containers on a small clean section of the kitchen counter and placing the cake stand on the table, Hannibal sits down next to you.

“Shhh. Come here,” as a pair of elegant hands gently unties your bandana, then enfolds you in a sustained hug, while carding through your hair.

“It’s fine, Will, really. Do you want to clean up the frosting while I look at the kitchen?”

You nod and feel Hannibal nose against your neck, his breath hot and ticklish against your skin, “You smell delicious though. Like vanilla sugar and champagne.”

“We won’t get anywhere if you keep that up.”

“Save it for later then,” Hannibal giggles as your teeth find his ear.

“Come on,” Hannibal breathlessly squirms against the lovely sensations, pushing himself away and rising to his feet, offering you an outstretched hand.

“Let’s see what damage Buster’s done, shall we?.”

Wandering into the chaotic kitchen, Hannibal is all business, suddenly in his element, completely comfortable.

Motioning to an nearly empty bowl which held pink remnants, Hannibal said, “What was this?”

“Well, before Buster found it, it was Bavarian Creme, for the filling.”

“I’m impressed Will. You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble. Let me just put the soup in the refrigerator.”

You look askance at that. “Refrigerator?”

“Yes, it’s a Lithuanian specialty, meant to be served chilled. Light and refreshing for a summer evening.”

You grab the kitchen towel, along with a bucket of soapy water and proceed to clean the living room and entry floor, getting all the dried pink residue up from the well-worn floor. Taking the bucket outside, you dump the water out on the side of the porch, watching the pack investigate their territory, laughing at Buster’s antics.

Turning, you go back inside, carrying everything back into the kitchen, putting things away, noticing all the powdered sugar cleaned up, floors and counters spotless as Hannibal’s shirt while Hannibal glances at the recipe book.

“I see you’ve done the chocolate curls already,Will. I’ve refrigerated them as they would have melted. Now, I need some help here. Do you have cornstarch?”

Opening a lower cupboard, you hand Hannibal the container and shiver as your fingers touch. His hand grips your wrist as you rise to your feet. “Come here. You are going to do the pastry creme.”

You look as his fingers crack three eggs one by one, separating the yolk from the egg whites over a bowl. He cradles the fragile yolk in his palm while you watch the viscous liquid drip through his spread fingers, reminding you of other liquids, sending a shiver through you and a sigh leaves your lips. His eyes flick upwards, noticing where your eyes are and understanding what’s going through your mind.

“I would let you lick my fingers, when I’m done Will but there are too many health risks with raw eggs for me to even consider it now. Later we can find an acceptable substitute I am sure.” He grins.

Taking the saucepan, he quickly drops the egg yolks one by one in the saucepan, each one somehow more naked, more suggestive without the viscous coating. Taking sugar and cornstarch, he measures each into the saucepan. Stepping away from the stove, Hannibal motions that you take his place and hands you a whisk.

“Mix everything with the whisk but don’t turn the heat under it yet please. For the Bavarian creme, how did you get it pink? I’m curious, Will.”

“Strawberry jello.”

“Really? Interesting.” murmured Hannibal as he heated milk, sugar, vanilla extract and salt in a saucepan, watching the steam whisp up from the pan.

“Now, leave the whisk in the pan, but take this ladle. Spoon a tiny bit of the milk into the eggs and whisk them quickly. Be careful or they will scramble. Keep whisking and adding milk a bit at a time,”

Hannibal nodded as he watched you negotiate the steps, clumsily at first and then with more confidence. When all the milk was incorporated, Hannibal turned the heat on under the pan just so and moved in back of you, sliding one hand around your waist while the other hand gently drifted down your arm to encircle your wrist, his thumb rubbing against the bottom of yours as his fingers covered yours, stroking between the webs of your fingers. You shudder as you can feel him move closer, chest pressing against your back.

“This is the important part Will. You have to keep whisking constantly or it will be ruined. Keep it moving while the mixture heats,” his hand guiding yours in a figure eight through the milk in the saucepan, never leaving a part of pan untouched.

Hannibal continued the directions, “Feel free to take it off the burner if it goes to fast. Assert your dominance,” the last said in a sensuous purr against your neck as his lips, teeth and tongue suck love bites into your neck and shoulders while you follow his directions, only barely able to keep your mind on what you are doing.

All you can hear is the metallic sound of the whish moving in the pan, keeping up a rhythm in contrast to the wet, loud, slippery noises coming from your neck and shoulders, “I...I think it’s done, Hannibal,”

Hannibal hummed and stepped back, causing your skin on your back to gooseflesh as his heated skin moved away. All efficient briskness, he came around to your right and soundlessly asked for the whisk. You moved away from the stove, rubbing your hands down opposite arms. He moves with economy, turning off the burner, pulling the saucepan off the heat and setting it on a dishcloth on the counter.

“Quickly, Will, could you give me the butter.”

Startled into action, you reach into the refrigerator for the requested item, handing a quarter of it to him, fingertips grazing again, before closing the door. Hannibal deftly cuts the butter into cubes within the opened wrapper held in his strong hand, cubed pieces falling into the heated cream, whisking rapidly all the time, butter hitting the warm mixture and melting almost immediately upon contact, the whisk all but unnecessary.

“Cooking is sensuous, Will. Don’t you think so?” Hannibal purred as his eyes found yours, laugh lines crinkling as he watched your reaction, tongue flicking out to wet your lips.

“This needs to be chilled and covered in a bowl but it’s finished. Let’s trade places.” Hannibal pulled a bowl out of the refrigerator and moved to appropriate the whisk again, while you performed the requested tasks.

“Now this…?” Hannibal looked at you as he pulled the whisk through the concoction.

“The frosting of course.”

“Of course,” Hannibal frowned as he dragged the whisk through the mix again, pulling the implement out of the bowl while making sure a good heap of the sugary mixture was mounded on top of the whisk, holding it horizontally a good distance above the bowl, then suddenly flicking his wrist upward, watching the pink mixture slide off the whisk in a dripping sheet and fall back into the bowl with a doleful sodden awful splunk of a sound.

“Umm, Hannibal? I’ve never seen frosting do that before,” as your cheeks flush at the sight and sound.

“No Will. Neither have I. What flavor of frosting?”

“Strawberry.”

“Of course. One tip, sheet gelatin does not come in flavors.”

“Oh,” more a breath than a response.

A very pregnant pause.

“Don’t worry, Will. I’m unable to use this for frosting. It will slip off the cake,” as Hannibal hands you the bowl. “I will make Italian frosting instead. It won’t take long. Are the cake layers sliced in half?”

“No, not yet,”

Hannibal brings the mixer over closer to the stove. The cooking which follows is akin to a ballet. Hannibal combines sugar and water in a clean saucepan boiling it into a syrup.

As the sticky liquid cooks, Hannibal asks you for a glass filled with chilled water. Assuming he’s thirsty, you hand him a drinking glass filled with water. His laughter bubbles up. “Oh! It’s not your fault! I wasn’t clear,” as you prickle with the tiniest bit of indignation at the imagined slight.

“Come here love,” Hannibal pulls the pan off the heat and turns off the burner as you move closer. He kisses the furrows away on your forehead, murmuring apologies.

“Feeling better?”

“Hmm, yes. Why do you need a glass of water if you aren’t going to drink it?”

“Magic,” Hannibal smiles and pulls back. “Do you have a glass measuring cup?”

“Hmm,” you answer as your mouth finds his neck and you delicately nip at the junction of his neck and shoulder.

He sighs and sinks back against you, moaning breathlessly, tiny kitten mewls spilling from his throat. You remember what you did to produce the sound determined to recreate it in the bedroom later.

“Will,” Hannibal makes your name sound like it has three syllables.

“Yes?”

“I want to show you magic.”

Cupping his hardness, hearing him hiss, “This is the only magic I want to see.”

Shaking now, “Ah! No,Will!” Hannibal’s anguish is beautiful, panting, trying to break free but yearning to stay just where he is, caught like a live butterfly on a pin.

Taking pity on him, you release him and step away watching him attempt to compose himself, pulling and smoothing the bottom of pink hoodie down as you get the measuring cup and fill it with cold water, knowing it will reach the desired temperature as it sits on the counter.

Hannibal takes it from you with shaking hands, placing it between the stove and the mixer. “Please take the egg whites I didn’t use before and put them in the mixer, Will. Thank you,” as he puts the pan back on the burner, lighting the fire again.

You watch him beat the egg whites until soft peaks form. Then his concentration is back on the stove. “Would you hand me a spoon?” You watch as he scoops a small amount of the sticky syrup onto the spoon, dropping it into the chilled water. Immediately setting aside the spoon and immersing his fingers in the water, he forms the syrup into a soft ball, drawing it out of the water, where it flattened in his hand. Hannibal nods and smiles, looking at you, “Magic.”

Hannibal turned off the heat, turned on the mixer and slowly drizzled the hot syrup into the egg whites, beating them until it was all incorporated. As the machine whisks the mixture further, Hannibal asked for more cubed butter, vanilla and salt. Watching his elegant hands, he spun the ingredients into a glossy buttercream as you whistled in appreciation.

Turning off the machine and unhooking the whisk, he asked for the cake stand. You bring the stand over, placing it on the countertop.

“Is it a heirloom?”

“Yes, but not mine. I studied with a French chef while I was younger during the summer months in Paris.”

You almost laugh, _“Of course you did.”_ There is little about the astonishing man before you that you would not believe and your heart swells as you watch him pull ingredients out of the refrigerator, happier than you can believe as he lines up the chilled bowls on the counter.

Hannibal cuts the cake layers in half and looks at you, with knife tip upraised, light glinting off the knife blade, as you catch his eyes, understanding what is passing between the two of you has nothing to do with desserts but much darker blood-soaked delights. Hannibal’s grin is feral and yours matches his in intensity.

“Shall we begin, Will?”

Both of you quickly assemble the cake alternating the pastry cream between the four cake layers, frosting everything with the Italian buttercream and covering it with pink chocolate curls and shards.

“It’s the best birthday cake ever! Thank you for making it for me.”

You leave to get your phone to take a picture of the cake to send to Beverly.  
Hannibal insists that you stand next to the cake, holding the cookbook open to the picture and declaring that yours is much superior to the printed photo.

As Hannibal carefully arranges the shelves in the refrigerator to accommodate the towering creation, you go to let the pack in the house.

When you return, surrounded by muffled woofs, a small cloud of dog hair and happy yips, Hannibal has set the dining room table. You beam as you feed the contented dogs, feeling pleased at the way the day has turned out.

Your phone pings as you finish up, Bev’s happy “whoop” of delight at the photo and her insistence that you have to recreate the cake for her at her next celebration. You peal with laughter at the idea, nearly bent over in two as you laugh hysterically, one hand clutching your stomach. Suddenly, Hannibal grabs you from behind and growls in your ear, “Hang up **now**.”

You manage to say goodby to Bev without being rude and leave the phone on the countertop as Hannibal spins you around, frantically seeking your lips. The kiss is all teeth, and you respond by biting his lower lip and drawing blood, laving the cut with your tongue. Hannibal is murmuring endearments in your ear in charming polyglot of languages.

Finally managing to break away for some air, you pull him close, tucking his head under your chin allowing him to listen to your heartbeat and steady breathing, calming him, gentling him as if he was one of your skittish strays.

“I’m starving, Hannibal.”

“I apologize, Will. I was overcome by your charms,” laughs Hannibal as he gives you a final hug before releasing you to retrieve dinner.

“Go ahead and sit down.”

Taking your place, you watch as Hannibal ladles out a pink soup into shallow bowls, then returns with a plate of homemade brown bread and a small dish of butter.

“Hannibal, this is practically austere by your standards.”

Hannibal chuckles and flashes his lovely fangs, his laugh lines crinkling in delight at the comment.

“A master chef shines in simplicity. This is a traditional Lithuanian cold beet soup, along with homemade brown bread and butter.”

You slather a piece of bread with butter, taking a bite and humming in appreciation. Hannibal sits smiling and watches you lick the butter from your fingers.

As you bring the soup spoon up to your lips, you notice a familiar herby fragrance.

“Is this dill?”

“Yes, fresh dill, along with a mosaic of fresh vegetables, hard-boiled eggs and buttermilk.”

“It’s delicious, Hannibal. Thank you for dinner.”

“It was my pleasure, Will. If you enjoy the soup, there are others I could make,”

You slurp the last of your bowl, happily contented, eyes flickering up at Hannibal as if questioning him.

“For example, there is Juka.”

As you reach for another piece of bread, “Of course, you are going to make me ask. What is Juka?”

“A traditional blood soup.”

“Blood?”

“Yes, traditionally chicken, duck or goose blood. However, that doesn’t preclude it from being made from other animals.”

“I’m sure you’ve perfected it,” as you lick greasy fingertips clean of butter.

“May I offer you anything else, Will?”

“We can discuss that after dessert.” You watch as his face flushes to match his pink hoodie.

“Shall I make coffee to go with the cake?”

“Nonsense. Just let me clean up. It’s your birthday. Relax on the sofa.”

Dishes quickly washed and food put away, you make coffee, grinding the beans and listening to the hot water blurble over them, the smell of coffee filling the kitchen and living room. While you are busy, Hannibal sets the table with small cake plates.

You carry the cake to the table and return for the cups of coffee.

“I can’t remember when someone made me birthday cake.”

“Ha! That reminds me!” You return to the kitchen, scrambling in a drawer for a small box alongside a box of matches.

“Is that really necessary?” Hannibal blushes.

“Yes, it is. I thought you liked blowing, Hannibal?”

“You minx.”

“You secretly love it.” You notice a pleasing blush across Hannibal’s face, as you stud the top of the cake with all of the candles in the box, then light them with a match from the book of matches.

“I wouldn’t have thought this was your idea.”

“Oh,it wasn’t. Bev gave me the candles and the box of matches. Hang on. I promised a picture.”

Taking the empty box along with the matches into the kitchen, you retrieve your phone.

“Alright, birthday boy. Show me what you’ve got.” You take the photo just before he blows the candles out.

“Birthday wishes?” you ask.

“To show you the world, Paris, Japan, Morocco, Florence, other places. To walk down every street together hand in hand. To spend every night with you in my arms, taking you apart and vice versa.”

You laugh infectiously. “Don’t want for much do you?”

He cuts the cake, eyes twinkling. “Since it’s so rich, would you be averse to sharing my piece?”

“No, of course not,” as you take the cake back to the kitchen, the dogs eyeing the cake hopefully. “Buster, not on your life,” listening to his whimper as you put the cake back in the refrigerator.

Returning to the table, Hannibal holds out a forkful of dessert to you.

“Oh, god, Hannibal, that’s good!” you groan.

His face floods with happiness as he watches you lick the frosting, filling and cake from your lips.

“Next mouthful, I get to do that, Will,” as he sips his coffee and slides the plate over to you.

You reciprocate feeding Hannibal, watching his hair fall across his forehead as he bends slightly to take the offered morsel off the fork. Humming happily, Hannibal sits back, eyes closed. You wet your index finger and run it along his lips, cleaning them off. Hannibal’s eyes flutter open at the touch and darken as you make a show of sucking your finger clean.

“Dare I ask if we even make it upstairs?”

“One more piece then and I’m done,” mouth opening wide as he slips an overloaded fork into your mouth, deliberately messing your lips, face and mouth as he maneuvers it in. As promised, he leans over, catching your whiskered chin in his hands, holding your head steady as his pink tongue carefully cleans all the sweet debris from your face as you swallow.

Cradling his face in your hands, you flutter your tongue against his lips, slipping inside as he moans. “Sofa, or upstairs, please, Will.”

“Sofa first,” you growl as the kiss is broken and the two of you rise from the table, everything else nearly forgotten.

“Wait a moment, Hannibal.” Whistling for the pack, you place the plate on the floor, allowing them to clean it, Buster giving a soft “woof” of approval.

Hannibal looks at you curiously at this action, clearly nonplussed. “Do you do this often?”

“I would rather do this than have them attempt to climb on the table to get to leftovers. I’m not about to stop now to wash a single dish,” you explain as you grab him by the hips and grind yourself against him.

“Ready for your present now?”

“You mean there’s more?”

“It wouldn’t be a birthday if it wasn’t. After all, I have to make some of those wishes come true.”

  
Hannibal sits on the sofa while you retrieve the wrapped package from its hiding place.

“Do you want a drink?”

“No, I’m good. Thank you,Will,” as Hannibal takes the present from you.

You toe off your shoes and socks before sitting down on the sofa. Hannibal’s eyes twinkle as he watches you while undoing the wrapping paper.

“Getting ahead of yourself?”

“Getting comfortable, smartass”

Opening the small rectangular box, Hannibal opens it to find eight slender stainless steel rods of varying widths. “Will,” Hannibal purrs and elongates your name as his fingers dance across the metal objects.

You move closer as Hannibal is transfixed by his present, a flush visibly rising across his cheeks, ears and neck, almost panting in response to your motion.

“Not tonight, but sometime soon, I want to see you pinned down on my bed Hannibal. Plugged front and back, desperate and aching for me all night long.”

At your words, Hannibal gasps, closes the box reverently, setting it off to the side carefully and moves to straddle your lap, pulling off his pink hoodie and t-shirt underneath in one fluid motion.

He clings to you, murmuring foreign endearments in your ear as he pulls your long locks back forcing your whiskered chin upwards. Rocking slightly back, his fangs nip at your neck, marking you all over again.

“I take it you like your present then?”

You swallow his grunted reply. “Give me your tongue. Stick it out. Don’t be shy.”

He complies as you savagely suck it down, your own tongue dancing along it’s slippery sides, flicking across its muscular bottom. Hannibal’s eyes roll back in his head and he keeps tugging on your hair as if it’s the only anchor in a storm-tossed sea.

Deliberately slurping, sucking and moaning at his mouth, your hands are busy rubbing his legs, ass, abdomen and obvious tented bulge. Breaking off the kiss, Hannibal falls bonelessly forward, his shaking arms coming around your shoulders, moaning and babbling all the while.

“Shh. My love. Shall I take you upstairs now?”

He nods, shivering in your arms, his heartbeat frantic against your hands, his breathing a hurricane of sound against your ear.

“I wanted to show you that you are your own kind of beautiful to me, Hannibal,” you murmur as you stand up. “Wrap your legs around me love.”

You carry him upstairs for the rest of his birthday present.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For all non-cooks out there, there IS a difference between sheet gelatin and jello product. Jello's fine for shots but not for making frosting or Bavarian creme. Use the sheet gelatin instead. XD
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> This is the soup Hannibal makes - Lithuanian Beet soup - There is a recipe on the @fannibalsgrowingcircle on Tumblr. look for the tag #hannicooks


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